Page 4 of The Mistletoe Countess
“Oh yes, my pleasure as well.” She grinned and started to disappear toward the secret stair but then turned back to him. “Please don’t tell Lillias I met you first. It’s not every day a woman meets her future husband.”
Chapter Two
Marrying for money left a sour taste. Frederick Percy, Earl of Astley, had pursued every option other than a marriage contract, but nothing else served to save his future with such expediency. His mother had arranged it all, after an unexpected introduction in London between both sets of parents led to a speedy decision of the perfect match. Frederick reined in a sigh.
His family’s legacy hinged on a respectable exchange. His title. Her dowry.
Respectable.He stayed the grimace waiting to curl behind his smile. The agreement had sounded simple enough two months ago when an ocean separated him from the reality of it, but now, with the signatures’ ink still wet on the contract and a mere week until the wedding, the decision weighed upon him with treacherous foreboding. Was this truly the only way to make amends for his past and save his family’s estate? And what of the girl?
He glanced down at the woman in his arms as they danced together across Whitlock’s marble floors, the glow of Christmas lights casting an otherworldly hue against the soft folds of her golden hair and glimmering off the silver-blue headband set like a crown among her curls. Her gown matched the headband, a sleek display of the latest fashion, or so that is what Frederick presumed. Cinched at the waist, slim skirt, and an open neckline above a beaded bodice to reveal an ample amount of her milky skin.
Lillias Ferguson met every requirement on his mother’s extensive list, and her father’s money met every necessity on Frederick’s.
Appearance? Almost angelic. Demeanor? Aloof. Affections? Tempered. Carriage? Flawless. Conversation? As expected, a command of the weather, local news, and the art of diversion from herself. Miss Ferguson presented as the very portrait the Countess of Astley ought to depict.
In fact, she exerted such control over her emotions and facial features, Frederick felt as though she’d arrived with prescript discourse down to the very breath. Perhaps she was nervous. What woman wouldn’t be at the prospect of marrying an utter stranger? They’d barely had two conversations before Mr. Ferguson produced the contract and sealed their fates.
Frederick gave a mental shake to dislodge his unease as he moved with Miss Ferguson in graceful unison across the Music Room floor. The space teemed with at least two dozen of the Fergusons’ party guests, some sitting in conversations while a few chose to dance, the holiday festivities encouraging more gaiety than Frederick could muster, though he was well equipped to play the part. He met Blake’s gaze through the expanse of enthusiastic dance partners, as his cousin waltzed with a woman twice his age. A Mrs. Seaton, was it? Frederick almost grinned. Stephen Blake and his avoidance of matrimony had become almost leg-endary. Ah, the liberty of being the third son of a baron. The very idea nearly vaulted Frederick into a foul mood. His days of liberty had ended six months ago when his older brother suddenly died, leaving Frederick as the sole rescuer of an entire legacy.
He stiffened his resolve. There was nothing else to be done. And he would see it through.
He returned his attention to the lovely inducement in his arms, her countenance as controlled as his. They both knew their roles and—God help them—the consequences.
“Is it true, Lord Astley, that you were almost overrun by an autocar in the village upon your arrival today?”
A most unfortunate introduction, for certain. Frederick forced a smile. “A simple case of someone mishandling their new automobile, I’d imagine. Finicky machines, they are.”
Instead of being appeased, she blanched, her hand tightening against his shoulder. “When I overheard Father speaking about it only a few moments ago, it sounded terrifying. It’s lucky you were not injured or worse. After all the plans and expectations…” Her brow furrowed for an instant and cleared so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined the tightening around her eyes, the fear trembling over her countenance. “For your dear Havensbrooke, of course.”
His stomach clenched at her subtle shift. He searched her face a moment longer to no avail. Nerves most likely. Blast his own suspicious nature! The poor woman didn’t deserve it.
Despite his best efforts, his gaze sought Blake’s, as if the man could overhear their conversation above the exuberant thrums of the piano. His cousin was already on edge about the entire affair with the autocar, and Frederick half wondered if Blake had been hidden among the shrubberies of the gardens earlier while Frederick took Miss Ferguson on a private stroll.
“This was not an accident, Freddie. And neither was the docks.”
Blake’s words cast a shadow over the festive evening with its Christmas lights and cheerful holiday decor. A residual throb from Frederick’s sore shoulder provided the tactile memory of barely dodging a falling tower of freight upon disembarking their steamer in New York. Had it not been for Blake’s quick movements by slamming his body against Frederick’s…
“Yes, Havensbrooke.” Best navigate the discussion away from uncontrolled autocars and his possible demise. “I understand you enjoyed your most recent visit to England. September, wasn’t it?” And the catalyst for this choice.
Her gaze flickered to his, golden brow arched as if perfectly aware of his careful topic shift. “Yes. The countryside was beautiful.”
A response without feeling but perfectly executed. It’s exactly what Frederick needed and should have desired. No scandal. Low attention. “Were there any places you particularly enjoyed visiting?”
“We spent two weeks in London, and it was thrilling. I adore the exciting opportunities the city provides, don’t you?”
London! His least favorite place in all of England. “It is most diverting.”
“Father said that your estate of Havensbrooke is in Derbyshire.” Her smile clung to her lips but failed to surface in her eyes. “We passed through that region on the train. It’s lovely but…rather remote.”
Remote? The word brought unvoiced criticism with it. “We are only a few hours from London by rail, and there is an estate village with all the necessary comforts.”
“Ah, that’s good news.” Her body stiffened ever so slightly, but otherwise nothing changed. “And does Havensbrooke have telephones? Electricity? I’ve heard from my great-aunt who married an earl some ten years ago that she moved into an estate house that had been nearly untouched for a hundred years.”
Frederick’s stance tightened along with hers. If her expectations for Havensbrooke matched the modern elegance of Whitlock, Miss Ferguson was doomed for disappointment. “Part of the house has electricity, a new feature in the past year.” His brother’s addition, despite depleting funds for the estate. “As well as a telephone. And I do have a townhome in London.”
“A townhome?” Her gaze shot back to his, brightening. “That is good news.”
He felt his defenses rally. “And once we’re married, I would appreciate your involvement in deciding how to best improve Havensbrooke, to see it modernized for our benefit as well as the next generation’s.”
